[Generation Kill] [Gen] Surface Tension
Title: Surface Tension
Subject: Generation Kill | Gen (probably future Brad/Nate)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Colony Mathilda is a shithole, there's no way else to put it. | A space AU.
Notes: Inspired by the prompt “And the rest is rust and stardust.” from Lolita. Not finished, so count this as like...part one. I just knew I'd forget to post it if I didn't do it before I go out ;) Also ignore the fact it's shitty, it's sort of stitched together I started it at like 4am last night and finished it just now on 3 hours sleep >:|
Colony Mathilda is a shithole, there's no way else to put it. Daily, sometimes hourly, sandstorms. The native race was long gone - killed or sent to other colonies - and so the marines had little else to do except work out and bitch about being posted to Colony Mathilda.
At least, Nate thought, the views were nice. If you climbed the highest point of the fence at night, the stars shone brightly and you could almost imagine that you could see home. Nate knows he's not the only person who spends time up there, stretched out along the tight edge of the wall and thinking about home. It doesn't help that there's only barely space for two up there, it's a respite from the noise of hundreds of men cramped together.
Occasionally, he passes other men on the way up or the way down. They nod, they say nothing, they don't talk about their feelings, they don't talk about longing for somewhere far, far away.
Nobody except for Sergeant Colbert, who'll cram himself onto the tiny ledge, swing his long legs over the side of the wall like the drop won't kill him. He'll stare at the sky, sit in silence until he thinks of something to say.
Some nights it's they promised me tropical climates and whores, sir and some nights it's LT, the guns aren't working again.
On May 3rd, it's what do you miss from home, sir?. Nate notes it in his journal, because it's the first time he's ever heard Brad talk about something personal.
"Books," Nate says to him. He stares at where the moon should be, shrouded in the sand still heavy in the air from earlier on. "The internet. Coffee shops. My family. You?" Brad thinks for a moment. Nate thinks he's not even going to reply because he's getting to his feet, one smooth movement for the descent back down the ladders.
"Freeways," he says, just before he drops down the hatch. "Freeways and food that doesn't taste like it came out of a fucking slug."
It's another three months before Colbert really talks to him, falls out of lines and regulations and standards. He waits until the Officer's tent clears out and then he squeezes in, bent low under the flaps of the doorway and stares down at Nate, still on his bed, intense and almost angry.
"Sir," he says, as Nate stands up, tries to even out the height gap between them. It's not a large gap, but it seems large enough. "Correspondence arrived today. There's a war out in the Iota band and I wanted to know why we weren't in it."
"They need us here." Nate already knows that's not going to go down well. He sees it in Brad's face, in the way it turns stony, the way he swallows and clenches his fists.
"With all due respect, sir, you know that's utter bullshit." Brad's voice is even, gentle and smooth and not belying the annoyance, the frustration, the rest of his body is echoing. "They could put some fucking reservists out here and the job would get done. Instead, they put-" He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, and that's the end of that.
"I understand your frustration, Brad," Nate says. "And I've been assured that we'll be moving out soon enough." Brad nods at that, almost smiles before he turns on his heel and makes his way back out of the tent.
It's the last Nate hears of Brad's - or anyone's - frustration.
They get their orders to leave on August 30th. By September 2nd, the evacuation starships are waiting for them, great, black hulking beasts that kick up the sand more than usual. By the time Nate finally boards, last, naturally, he's covered in so much sand he looks a concentrated red colour.
Marine's are milling around the deck, strapping themselves into their seats at random instead of their assigned numbers, bags stowed above their heads. He should say something but he doesn't, he just drops into the first empty seat he sees.
"Good afternoon, LT." He glances up, and it's Corporal Person, his grin not quite at manic as usual. "Loving day to be moving out, isn't it? What's our destination, sir? Are there beaches?"
"Home first," Nate says. Behind Ray, Brad's raising an eyebrow, a clear question of where's that?. "Colony Beta 70," he corrects, and Brad's smirking like it's a joke. "And where do you two call home?"
"The Hermod region," Brad says, losing Ray's reply in the strong pride in the way he says it. No wonder, Nate thinks, as the starship starts to vibrate around them, he misses freeways.
Subject: Generation Kill | Gen (probably future Brad/Nate)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Colony Mathilda is a shithole, there's no way else to put it. | A space AU.
Notes: Inspired by the prompt “And the rest is rust and stardust.” from Lolita. Not finished, so count this as like...part one. I just knew I'd forget to post it if I didn't do it before I go out ;) Also ignore the fact it's shitty, it's sort of stitched together I started it at like 4am last night and finished it just now on 3 hours sleep >:|
Colony Mathilda is a shithole, there's no way else to put it. Daily, sometimes hourly, sandstorms. The native race was long gone - killed or sent to other colonies - and so the marines had little else to do except work out and bitch about being posted to Colony Mathilda.
At least, Nate thought, the views were nice. If you climbed the highest point of the fence at night, the stars shone brightly and you could almost imagine that you could see home. Nate knows he's not the only person who spends time up there, stretched out along the tight edge of the wall and thinking about home. It doesn't help that there's only barely space for two up there, it's a respite from the noise of hundreds of men cramped together.
Occasionally, he passes other men on the way up or the way down. They nod, they say nothing, they don't talk about their feelings, they don't talk about longing for somewhere far, far away.
Nobody except for Sergeant Colbert, who'll cram himself onto the tiny ledge, swing his long legs over the side of the wall like the drop won't kill him. He'll stare at the sky, sit in silence until he thinks of something to say.
Some nights it's they promised me tropical climates and whores, sir and some nights it's LT, the guns aren't working again.
On May 3rd, it's what do you miss from home, sir?. Nate notes it in his journal, because it's the first time he's ever heard Brad talk about something personal.
"Books," Nate says to him. He stares at where the moon should be, shrouded in the sand still heavy in the air from earlier on. "The internet. Coffee shops. My family. You?" Brad thinks for a moment. Nate thinks he's not even going to reply because he's getting to his feet, one smooth movement for the descent back down the ladders.
"Freeways," he says, just before he drops down the hatch. "Freeways and food that doesn't taste like it came out of a fucking slug."
It's another three months before Colbert really talks to him, falls out of lines and regulations and standards. He waits until the Officer's tent clears out and then he squeezes in, bent low under the flaps of the doorway and stares down at Nate, still on his bed, intense and almost angry.
"Sir," he says, as Nate stands up, tries to even out the height gap between them. It's not a large gap, but it seems large enough. "Correspondence arrived today. There's a war out in the Iota band and I wanted to know why we weren't in it."
"They need us here." Nate already knows that's not going to go down well. He sees it in Brad's face, in the way it turns stony, the way he swallows and clenches his fists.
"With all due respect, sir, you know that's utter bullshit." Brad's voice is even, gentle and smooth and not belying the annoyance, the frustration, the rest of his body is echoing. "They could put some fucking reservists out here and the job would get done. Instead, they put-" He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, and that's the end of that.
"I understand your frustration, Brad," Nate says. "And I've been assured that we'll be moving out soon enough." Brad nods at that, almost smiles before he turns on his heel and makes his way back out of the tent.
It's the last Nate hears of Brad's - or anyone's - frustration.
They get their orders to leave on August 30th. By September 2nd, the evacuation starships are waiting for them, great, black hulking beasts that kick up the sand more than usual. By the time Nate finally boards, last, naturally, he's covered in so much sand he looks a concentrated red colour.
Marine's are milling around the deck, strapping themselves into their seats at random instead of their assigned numbers, bags stowed above their heads. He should say something but he doesn't, he just drops into the first empty seat he sees.
"Good afternoon, LT." He glances up, and it's Corporal Person, his grin not quite at manic as usual. "Loving day to be moving out, isn't it? What's our destination, sir? Are there beaches?"
"Home first," Nate says. Behind Ray, Brad's raising an eyebrow, a clear question of where's that?. "Colony Beta 70," he corrects, and Brad's smirking like it's a joke. "And where do you two call home?"
"The Hermod region," Brad says, losing Ray's reply in the strong pride in the way he says it. No wonder, Nate thinks, as the starship starts to vibrate around them, he misses freeways.